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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30071967">profound endings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/casbegins/pseuds/casbegins'>casbegins</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Assisted Suicide, Canon Compliant, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, References to Depression, Someone Please Hug Him, Suicidal Thoughts, dean avoids every problem in existence, i erased the last two episodes from my mind, i might get some of the plot wrong, none of these are good coping mechanisms, this is the result of my dean coding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:55:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30071967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/casbegins/pseuds/casbegins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas dies, and Dean keeps on grinding. After all, everything usually has a way of working itself out. It's only fair it does the same now.</p><p>(aka some of Dean's thoughts.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>profound endings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107135">unfinished duet</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/microcomets/pseuds/microcomets">microcomets</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i hate the finale with a deep burning passion, and  i promised myself i wouldn't write any fics ever but here we are, almost four months later as i procrastinate on homework and spend a few hours on this instead. this is my first proper fic so please be nice— kudos and comments are appreciated!</p><p>just as a little reminder: these are dean's thoughts. it's not necessarily what's actually going on, just what he lets himself think, and that's not usually the greatest stuff.</p><p>thanks to <a href="https://arsonsamwinchester.tumblr.com/">allison</a> for reading this and making sure it wasn't just an incoherent string of late night ramblings.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean is fine.</p><p>He’s dealt with trauma before, a hell of a lot of it. He’s got several lifetimes’ worth and the scars to prove it. He carried his baby brother out of a burning house at the very beginning of his own life, was the reason his dad sacrificed himself, and he didn't look out for Sammy enough— got him dead once or twice. Hell knows he’s seen too many people die. Too many loved ones. It shouldn’t be any different now that it’s C— his best friend, who he’s seen die plenty of times before, thank you very much. So why does it feel that way? </p><p>Something in Dean’s chest is aching to the rhythm of the phone ringing in the background, a deep dull throb he vaguely recognizes from all the last times. He remembers it with the rough fabric of a curtain, a ratty blue button-down, black goo, and gravestones. Remembers getting down on his knees, time running out, the tough bark of that tree. Remembers pouring a drink and leaning against a table, the stench of blood and guts and the wind whipping his face at the top of the hill, a water reservoir and a ring of fire and a vending machine and a barn and—</p><p>No.</p><p><em> Keep on grinding. </em> That’s what he always told himself. The one thing he could count on to motivate him. </p><p>The ringing stopped a while ago, he thinks.</p><p>He should probably check who it was. Could’ve been Sammy. Something might’ve gone down. </p><p><em> Just one more minute, </em> he thinks. <em> Just gimme a minute to breathe </em>. </p><p>He lets one tear fall halfway down his face before he wipes it away like he did in Purgatory, sniffs and gets up.</p><p>Dean is fine.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Alcohol is like coming home to an old friend. The burn of the whiskey going down his throat is welcoming and familiar. Dean doesn’t know why he ever stopped drinking. </p><p>All the thoughts are floating out of his mind, one by one, and maybe if he keeps going, just one more sip, just one more bottle, that lingering ache will go away and he’ll stop seeing a flash of blue and flowing tan every time he closes his eyes. What the hell was that about anyway?</p><p>Dean’s long since abandoned the glass. Chugging the whiskey isn’t nearly as pleasant as chugging beer, but it’s twice as effective. Everything is so dull and empty and meaningless anyway— who cares about pleasantness? He’d rather just feel nothing, like Ca— like the angels in the Empty. </p><p>The bottles are scattered across the table and the floor, some empty, some still half full with beer or whiskey or whatever Dean got his hands on. <em> Shouldn’t let that go to waste, </em> some part of his brain mumbles at him. He thinks it’s probably right. Dean gets out of the chair, not so successfully, and tumbles to the floor. There’s a few more bottles on the ground now, he’s sure. He thinks he might’ve heard something shatter. </p><p><em> Sammy’s gonna get worried, </em> one side of his brain whispers at him. <em> He would’ve heard the glass breaking. He’s a pretty smart kid, y’know, he’ll know exactly what’s happening. </em></p><p><em> Oh yeah, and what’s that? </em> the other side retorts, slurring its words. <em> I’m just having a couple drinks. Besides, kid’ll worry more about the books I got whiskey on. </em></p><p>
  <em> Keep telling yourself that. </em>
</p><p>He does. The floor is pretty comfy— he should’ve been spending more time down here. Dean’s left shoulder is squashed against the wood and the pressure there reminds him of something else. He closes his eyes and moves his hand to that spot, trying to remember the feel of a hand there, constant and warm and safe. Always the left shoulder. Dean never understood why. </p><p>Something is pricking behind his eyes. </p><p>Dean takes another gulp, slightly choking as the whiskey hits the back of his outstretched neck hard. He fumbles around the ground next to him, searching for another bottle for when this one is done. When his hand grasps something cold and hard, he pulls it close and hugs it. The smell reminds him of dingy motel rooms, screaming and a belt being yanked out of its loops and <em> gotta make sure Sammy’s okay </em>, gunpowder, a leather jacket,</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Chuck is gone now. </p><p>Well, not gone— just human. But that’s pretty good news, considering. Dean can finally be done with worrying about his free will and the choices he makes. He’s been worrying about that for years. It was getting a little exhausting. </p><p>There’s two new names carved in the big oak table in the library. Dean doesn’t really go in the library anymore. He doesn’t like sitting at that table. Never did, it’s too big and stiff and grand. All he’s ever really needed is a bed, a roof over his head, and some crappy pay-per-view Casa Erotica next to a six-pack. The comfy recliners he has can go to someone else. There’s probably other people out there who could use a nice chair like that. They don’t need to be wasted on him. Not like he’s gonna go down there anyway. Every time he does, he thinks about purple flashes and cartoons. The thought just gives him a headache and makes his chest hurt.</p><p>Sammy seems to be doing a lot better, too. He hasn’t tried to call Eileen or find her in any way, and that confuses Dean. Kid loved her too much for that. He should probably ask Sam what’s going on with that. And, god, Sam lost C— his best friend, and the closest thing he’s ever had to a son. Dean’s been terrible, he hasn’t even asked his brother how he’s coping. Dean remembers when he never would’ve had to remind himself about that, when he knew exactly what to say to Sammy to make him feel better. He would give anything to be able to do that right about now. Kid’s going through a lot, he needs support. Support a younger version of Dean would be able to give, not whatever the hell he’s giving now. Sam deserves better than some waste of a brother who drinks to cope with happy feelings and being free from God. How stupid is that? </p><p>Even with the new addition of Miracle, and Sam bumbling about occasionally, passing by Dean and going on his morning runs, or restocking the fridge because their milk curdled or the tomatoes are starting to smell funny— Dean tends to forget about that, that’s supposed to be his job— the bunker feels emptier. Not that there were ever a lot of people here since Michael. Dean swears he sees scruffy dark-haired heads turning corners, flashes of tan fabric hidden behind doors, footsteps echoing through the map room. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. He might be starting to miss being around other people. It’s been a while. He just needs a good night out, complete with a pretty girl on his arm as they walk out of a bar. </p><p>Dean’s stomach turns. </p><p>Probably needs some food with all the beer he’s been drinking.</p><p>He pushes himself out of his chair.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sam tries to talk to him sometimes. Dean’s usually too tired or too wrapped up in hugging Miracle and swaying slightly. Burying his face in a warm body and soft fur is one of the few things he seems to find comforting, next to alcohol and excessive sleep. </p><p>Sometimes Dean will tell Sam to go away, he’s busy. Sometimes Dean doesn’t respond, and Sam waits in the doorway for another minute with a weird look on his face, before inevitably sighing heavily and shutting the door behind him.</p><p>Dean hopes that eventually it’ll be enough for Sam to get tired of him and leave. The kid deserves a life, a real one. Not whatever this is, spending each day killing things and trying to get his useless husk of an overdramatic brother to drink some goddamn water.</p><p>Maybe one day.</p><p>Life seems to continue, and that’s okay. That’s how it should be. There’s no need to be hung up on the sadness of the past when there’s only good things to look forward to now. Their lives are finally rid of all the pain that’s been haunting them for so long. Dean feels like there should be a weight lifted, or a feeling of freedom, but there isn’t. He feels heavier than ever before and he doesn’t feel like moving a lot. Eating is tiresome and so is drinking water— Sammy forces a bottle into his hands sometimes and doesn’t leave until he downs half. Dean rolls his eyes the entire time because he’s not a kid, he knows how to take care of himself. Showering seems a bit pointless, too. He’s got free will now, he’s allowed to spend all day in bed hugging Miracle, and screw anyone who says otherwise. It’s nice to be able to rest and not have to think about anything.</p><p>The only thing Dean really gets up for anymore is hunts. Even with Chuck gone and out of their lives, and Jack as the new God, there’s always people that need saving. He and Sam go after monsters nearly every day now, like neither of them wants to stop. Dean figures something happened with Eileen— crap, he still hasn’t checked up on Sammy about that— and that’s making Sam like this. Or maybe nothing happened and that’s why he’s like this. Dean’s only hunting this much because he’s tagging along for the ride. It’s not like he’s lost anything that would make him derail his life. Never did it for any of his other family, not gonna do it for C— his best friend and his son. </p><p>Soon all the hunts start bleeding into one another. Day after day after day Dean forces himself out of bed and chugs a bottle of beer and grabs his gun or his machete or whatever needs grabbing. It’s all just one hunt after the next and even with all the people they’re saving, all the lives they’re extending, all the bad they’re ending, it feels pointless. Everyone dies anyway. </p><p>How he ever used to do it, Dean will never know.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Going to the pie festival feels forced. Dean can’t really bring himself to be happy so he’s making himself feel it. Pie is usually a safe bet, right? </p><p>Sam brings it up there, the thing he seemed to be skirting the past few weeks. </p><p>Dean answers. </p><p>His chest throbs.</p><p>Not like he actually <em> lied </em>, right? It was just a very, very small part of the truth, as he’s begun to realize. But just because he knows the source of his pain doesn’t mean he has to face it head on, now or ever. </p><p>Anyways, Dean is supposed to be asking Sam that about Eileen. He hasn’t been the same and he keeps thinking that he should ask, but the words never come out. Part of him suspects he’ll get the same answer he gave. Another part is afraid that Sam’s answer will force him to face his own problem. </p><p>Sam shouldn’t be the one worrying about Dean. Kid’s got it a lot worse than he does. </p><p>Just another sign that Sam should move on. He’s already stepping into the caretaker role for his lazy older brother. He really does deserve a proper life. </p><p>Dean just wants to sleep. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>One of Dad’s old hunts. He almost laughs. </p><p>Dean may be emotionally stunted, but he’s processed enough of his childhood to know that Dad never did him any favors, except teaching him how to fight and look out for Sammy. Everything else he got, from the alcoholism to the abuse— because as hard as it was to accept it, that’s what it was— to the daddy issues, was crap. So why was he out here, cracking jokes about vampires, trying to finish this hunt for his bastard old man? </p><p>Why not?</p><p>At this point, he knows enough to see that everything his life was, everything it meant, was falling apart. It all depended on his family, and the only one left was Sam. Sam means a hell of a lot to Dean, more than he’ll ever really tell him, but that isn’t enough anymore. Not even Sammy’s persistence to keep Dean alive and somewhat healthy and functioning. It was a nice gesture, but fruitless in the end. Dean’s life is gone, and this just brings him back to the start. </p><p>Why not come full circle and undo the last part of his life? Guess he is Daddy’s blunt instrument after all. </p><p>Sorry, buddy.</p><p>So when he’s wrestling with that vamp, he knows exactly what he’s heading towards— he saw it when he came in the barn. Damn what people say about Dean, he’s got sharper observation skills than some average Joe.</p><p>And when the rebar pushes through his chest, it takes place of that dull ache and he feels like he's just let out a breath he’s been holding for weeks. Sammy’s finishing up, he’s good at this, always has been. It gives him a sense of security to see that Sam will be able to fend for himself without Dean— but he knew that already. </p><p>While he gives his long-winded speech, Dean knows he’s not going to go for a few minutes yet. Just anything to keep Sammy from trying to stop this. He closes his eyes and imagines what comes next for him. A part of him hopes that Billie put something in place to keep her promise to send him to the Empty. Whether he wakes up or not when he gets there, it’s something to look forward to, for the first time in weeks. If he does wake up, well— he’s trying not to get his hopes up. </p><p>Dean knows this is selfish. Dad used to say as much all the time. Sam will probably take some time to get over it, but it’ll give him the push he needs to move on. Dean has no purpose here anymore. Sammy, he has a great life waiting for him. He just has to see this for what is— a fresh start. </p><p>And Miracle. Dean thought about her too. He trusts Sam to take care of her, whether that’s by giving her to someone else or keeping her. </p><p>Dean closes his eyes, thinking of tan sands and deep blue oceans and a bright, beautiful sun.</p><p>It’s starting to get a little tiresome hanging on like this. </p><p>Yeah. Dean’s done here.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Later, Dean would swear he saw a short man in a suit jacket walking away, holding a book with a grave on its cover, cackling.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When Dean opens his eyes, it’s to the same sun he left off thinking of. Already he feels at home, welcomed by it.</p><p>So, not the Empty then. Well, you win some, you lose some. Guess Dean lost the rest of his existence. </p><p>He blinks, his surroundings coming into focus. A big wooden shack, trees, and sandy pathways. </p><p>Bobby.</p><p>Seeing that old man again has got to be one of the happiest moments of Dean’s life. He never thought they’d get to see each other again. </p><p>Bobby explains everything. </p><p>Dean hears the sound of a beer bottle breaking on a countertop, shouting, and gunshots as he sips the filthy liquid. It washes down his throat, and with it go the memories of the glass bottle being forced against his lips and the feeling of the alcohol suffocating him. He chokes on it a little when Dad’s name is mentioned. No peace for Dean after all.</p><p>Mom’s here, that’s good. He’s not sure how well she’s getting along with the Dad he remembers, but seeing her is always a good thing. </p><p>
  <em> Cas helped. </em>
</p><p>The sun shines a little bit brighter.</p><p>Dean looks up to see that his Baby, his home and the only constant in his life, is here somehow. Doesn’t really matter to him, to be honest. He goes for a drive on the endless-looking road. Bobby will still be here after— that’s gonna take some getting used to. </p><p>As he drives, he breathes and he finally starts thinking again. It makes less and less sense. This is supposed to be Heaven. All Dean can think about are the dozens of people he’s lost over the course of his life, and <em> where are they. </em> Ellen, Jo, Ash, Charlie, Kevin, Missouri, Rufus, everyone he’s lost. None of them are here. </p><p>The road seems to stretch a little more.</p><p>And if C— screw this, he has to be able to say his name if he wants to think about seeing him again— Cas helped build this place….</p><p>Where the <em> hell </em> is he?</p><p>Dean thinks about all the tans and blues he’s been seeing behind closed eyes, as if maybe that’ll conjure the one person he wants to see most. More than anything. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any love confession bullcrap. All Dean wants right now is to see his best friend. Cas is the only other constant he’s ever had in his life and no big deathbed speech is going to erase their bond.</p><p>The road keeps going.</p><p>So maybe it is gone.</p><p>He keeps cruising down the path. Is this all there is to Heaven? His car, his surrogate dad, his mom, and his drill sergeant? Dean is less and less sure this is Heaven at all. He tries to picture what life might be like living like this, day to day. Each time he does, the road gets longer and it feels a little more like Hell. </p><p>Bobby said this Heaven is what you deserve. Does that mean Jack and Cas think that Dean deserves to spend all eternity driving alone, with next to none of the people he loves waiting for him when he comes back? All Dean has ever really wanted is to be surrounded by the people who love him and who he loves back. This, on the other hand, this is torture.</p><p>Maybe that’s what Dean deserves.</p><p>After all, he’s screwed up things more times than he can count. Started the apocalypse a few times, got his dad killed— even if he has a grudge against the old man, it doesn’t excuse causing him to die— got a few dozen other people tortured or killed, tortured a few himself, and let down his best friend and his kid brother so, so many times.</p><p>The road is suddenly coming to a bridge that definitely wasn’t there five seconds ago. Dean gets out of the car cautiously— something feels off about this place. It’s a little too bright, a little too saturated. Dean feels unnatural here. Forced. Then he sees an overgrown, shaggy-haired shadow cast over him, and all Dean can think is, <em> this isn’t Heaven.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Sammy wouldn’t be dead if this was Heaven. </em>
</p><p>He looks around a little at the sky desperately for a sign that his angel is still out there, just waiting to pop back in to fix things, or that this is just some entity playing a cosmic joke on him. Nothing happens, and Sammy keeps walking towards him.</p><p>Dean finds that all he can do is plaster on a big smile and pretend to be overjoyed that his brother is dead. <em> Smile and keep on grinding. Guess we’ve just got life, part two. </em></p><p>Maybe this is Hell after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>well, it's 3:30am and i just spent the last four hours, give or take, projecting onto dean. </p><p>if i get the inspiration, i might make an alternate happy last section in heaven with cas, far away from john. i like to think that that's how it really is, with dean and cas going fishing together and meeting sam and eileen for dinner every other weekend. stuff like that.</p><p>i live on instagram <a href="https://www.instagram.com/casbegins/">@casbegins</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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